An Asshole’s Horse

An asshole’s horse often looks better than the ass

almost riding it both now and before; I know.

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Thus starts the tale of the asshole who rode a horse.

The story about the horse that rode an asshole

would be more interesting; I think that I know.

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Thus starts the tale of the horse that rode an asshole.

(The air was filled with particles of life and death as well as laughter.)

Horse: Those were the days.

Asshole: And nights.

Horse: What an asshole!

Asshole: What a horse!

Horse: Can I call you, Ass, for short?

Asshole: A is more than enough.

Horse: Not in your short life! A stands for Athena, my Greek Goddess, and other worthy words. Ass will more than suffice for someone like you.

Asshole: What an arse! I mean, horse.

Of course, the horse was small; a Falabella (maybe a dog’s muse). After a while, no one noticed the horse or the asshole below it. Trees nearby were laughing each time that they passed by them, every leaf almost falling to the ground and it wasn’t autumn. I would have laughed too, but I was Asshole; Ass.

We dance a great tango together, but that is another tale.

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Please note that Asshole, a.k.a Greta Room, is the name of one of my narrators; the newest, at less than a year.